Peter, Peter
by WillowDryad
Summary: Could the High King possibly spend a quiet afternoon fishing? Evidently not. Part of the 24 in 24 Authors' Challenge.


**Disclaimer: Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. **

PETER, PETER

Peter stretched out on the grass beside the little stream that ran along the west side of Cair Paravel. Alone at last. He loved his brother and sisters, of course. He loved the many friends he had made in the three years since he had come into Narnia. But sometimes it was nice to just be alone in the quiet.

Of course his Tigers, Bast and Babur, and his Gryphon, Sher, were on guard just on the other side of the trees, and Greywing the Eagle was perched overhead, watching, too. Peter was the High King after all, and he didn't have complete freedom to do as he pleased. But for now, here in the cool, autumn air, here in the peaceful forest with only the lulling babble of the water to break the silence, he could forget about that and just be Peter Pevensie.

Peter Pevensie liked to fish.

He glanced over at the little piece of cork attached to his line. It was floating serenely on the top of the water, still undisturbed, but he didn't mind. Fishing was a matter of patience. He had a whole afternoon to be patient. A whole afternoon to be free.

He propped his fishing pole against his knees, still holding it with his right hand. Then he put his left arm behind his head and, with a little sigh, closed his eyes. Beautiful, beautiful peace and quiet.

He was nearly dozing when he felt a sharp tug on his line. Instantly alert, he grabbed the pole with both hands and tugged. But, instead of a fish, all he got was a little giggle.

With a puzzled frown, he sat up and then smiled to see a blue-eyed bundle of golden fur wrestling with the line. "Hello there."

The Kitten rolled onto his back and grinned.

"Where'd you come from, little one?"

"I live in the same house as the High King." The Kitten tugged at the line for a moment more and then clawed his way up onto Peter's knee. "Do you know the High King?"

"Well, yes, I–"

"We've been s'posed to not bother him yet. Mummy said we can meet him and his brother and sisters when we're big enough next week."

Peter smiled to himself. "I see. And how big will that be?"

"Eight weeks." The Kitten lifted his head proudly and then tumbled down into Peter's lap with another giggle. "Oops."

Peter set the fishing pole on the ground and then lay back again, cupping the kitten in both hands, tickling his tummy and letting him bat at his fingers.

"So I suppose your mother is Lady Emily Pouncepaws who works in the library?"

The Kitten looked at him with wide blue eyes, still biting Peter's sleeve. "How come you know that?"

"Because I know Lady Emily had her kittens a couple of months ago. I've been meaning to come see you all, but I've been a bit busy these days. How many of you are there?"

"Four." The Kitten walked across Peter's chest and came to stand with his forepaws on Peter's chin, looking down into his face. "There's Suzie and Lulu and Eddie and me."

Peter chuckled. He knew Cats, and this was really quite an honor.

"And you are?"

The Kitten grinned, showing his tiny, needle-like teeth. "I'm Petie."

"I see." Still chuckling, Peter propped his fishing pole against his knee once more. "Won't your mother be looking for you?"

"Prob'ly. But I'm not ready to go back yet. I'm 'sploring."

"Ah." Peter closed his eyes again. "Well, you stay right here with me, okay? Let me just try a little longer to catch something, and then we'll go back."

"A fish? Will you get a fish?"

"I hope so."

"If you get a fish, can I smell it?" Again Petie grinned. "Fish smell good and stinky."

"Sure." Peter patted his back, trying to get him to be still. Truly, the Kitten was worse than Edmund. "But if you're not quiet, the fish won't come."

"Okay. But I want to smell it."

"Shh."

Petie frowned a little. "Okay."

He kneaded Peter's chest for a moment, making little purring mews, and then he curled up and was still. Peter was nearly asleep again when he felt a little paw tap his nose.

"What is it, Petie?"

"Are your eyes awake?"

"Not really. Did you want something?"

Peter felt the little velvet forepaws on his chin once more.

"How come you know my mother?"

"Because I–"

"How come you know the High King?"

"Well, it's because I am–"

"How come you didn't tell me your name?"

Peter opened his eyes and, holding the kitten against his chest, sat up again. "Mostly because you didn't give me a chance."

"Oh." The Kitten blinked, and then he turned his head to one side, looking quite pleased with himself. "Daddy says I'm a 'fernal nuisance sometimes."

"Daddy" was one of Narnia's most astute tactical advisors, Sir Elliot Pouncepaws, and Peter had often heard him say the same thing about whichever enemy they happened to be facing. Petie looked remarkably like him.

Peter set the Kitten on his knee once more and started pulling in his line. Maybe he wasn't getting any bites because the fish had already stolen the bait. Or maybe it was because of this unexpected "'fernal nuisance." Either way, he had done no more than given the line a tug when Petie crouched down, his eyes flattened in concentration, his little backside wriggling.

Before he could pounce, Peter grabbed him.

"I think you'd better let that alone for now, Petie. I don't want you to get tangled up or get the hook in you."

Petie scowled at him, swinging at the enticing fishing line. "But I have to. I need it."

The Kitten kicked and squirmed, pushing with his back claws against Peter's forearm, still reaching for the elusive prize, but Peter held the line away from him and kept a firm grip on his middle. Finally, Petie stilled and looked at Peter brokenheartedly.

"But I need it."

"No, you don't need that."

Peter suppressed a grin, remembering the draft of the treaty that had so frustrated him that he had wadded it up and stuffed it into his pocket. Out of the Kitten's sight, he pulled the paper from his pocket, and crunching it up a little more tightly, he tossed it onto the grass.

"You need that."

Petie flung himself on it, rolling over and over, kicking and biting and growling with every bit of tiny fierceness he possessed. While he was conquering the paper ball, Peter wound up the fishing line and put the hook where Petie couldn't get to it. Then he realized Petie was chewing his bootlaces.

"Nope." Peter scooped him up again. "You don't need that either."

Scowling, the Kitten swiped at his nose with one paw, and Peter dodged the little claws.

"Now, now. I'm sure your mother would tell you that's not very polite."

Petie's whole face scrunched up into a frown. "She already told us that. She said we have to mind our manners or we can't meet the Kings and Queens."

Peter smiled and scratched the Kitten between the ears. "Well, it's always nice to be polite. Now come on. We'd better take you home before your mother gets too worried."

Petie nestled against Peter's neck, considering. "Mummy says it's always polite to introduce yourself."

"She's right."

"But you never told me your name."

"That was rather rude of me, wasn't it?" Peter bowed his head slightly. "My name is Peter, and I'm quite pleased to meet you."

"Are you–" The Kitten pulled back from him, blinking his blue eyes. "Are you the High King?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Uh oh." Petie's little eyebrows came together in concern. "I think I wasn't polite to the High King. Am I in trouble?"

Peter gave the Kitten a warm smile. "I think I forgot my manners a little bit, too. Maybe we'll just agree to try harder next time and then we won't have to tell Lady Emily or Queen Susan we messed up. What do you think?"

"I think that would be good." The Kitten rubbed his cheek against Peter's neck with a sudden, rumbling purr, and then he looked once more into Peter's face. "You know what? My real name's not Petie. It's Peter."

Peter feigned amazement. "Is it really?"

"It really is," Petie piped. "That means we have the same name."

"I suppose it does."

"That means we ought to be friends, doesn't it?"

Peter smiled into the bright blue eyes.

"I think that would be good."

**Author's Note: Little Petie is my sweet, blue-eyed little ball of golden fluff. I thought he should have a chance to meet his namesake. I think he had fun. This story is part of the **_**24 in 24 Authors' Challenge**_**.**

–**WD**


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